


Cloaks, Daggers, and Songbirds

by saechae_moonlight



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Angst, I'm Sorry Midoriya Inko, Insomniac Shinsou Hitoshi, M/M, Multi, Orphan Midoriya Izuku, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Shinsou Hitoshi, Prototype Midoriya Izuku - Freeform, Sassy Midoriya Izuku, Slight Mention of Young Death, Wealthy Midoriya Izuku
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saechae_moonlight/pseuds/saechae_moonlight
Summary: “𝑁𝑜…𝐺𝑜 𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑦…𝑛𝑜…𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒…”𝑆ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑝 𝑎𝑔𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑙𝑒-ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑜𝑦, 𝑑𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑐𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠, ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐 𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚𝑠 𝑚𝑢𝑓𝑓𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘, 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑢𝑑𝑠. 𝐾𝑛𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 ℎ𝑖𝑚, 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒. 𝐻𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ, ℎ𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠, 𝑎 𝑙𝑎𝑟𝑔𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑎𝑡 𝑡𝑜 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑢𝑡. 𝐻𝑒 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑛.“𝐻𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑦…𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒.” 𝐻𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑟𝑚𝑠, ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒.𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑙𝑒.“𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒, 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑒𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔. 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑢𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑚𝑒.” 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑦 𝑓𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑠 𝑔𝑟𝑖𝑛, 𝑎𝑛 𝑒𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑜𝑓 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑝 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠. 𝑁𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑎 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑜𝑦, 𝑎𝑠 ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑙 𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑒𝑣𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑐𝑟𝑢𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑦.𝐻𝑒 𝑖𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒.
Relationships: Kaminari Denki/Midoriya Izuku, Kirishima Eijirou/Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku & Hunger Games Cast, Midoriya Izuku & Shinsou Hitoshi, Midoriya Izuku & Todoroki Shouto, Midoriya Izuku & Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Platonic Midoriya Izuku/Shinsou Hitoshi - Relationship
Kudos: 4





	Cloaks, Daggers, and Songbirds

**Author's Note:**

> um...well. how do i start here? i made a fic, that i really really like, and so, imma update and all. this is just a preview. um, comment if you want more?

_“For the rebellion of the twelve(formerly thirteen)districts, there shall be what the whole of Panem calls ‘The Hunger Games’, where each district will have to submit one young man, and one young woman, from the ages of 12-18 years, to fight to the death in the Arena.”_

_-excerpt from **Treaty of Treason**._

The people of District Twelve have long learned that no child from their district would ever win the Hunger Games. There were only two outliers. One dead, and one a drunken bastard. Luck had abandoned them a long time ago. Since then, there was only gore, and the little fragment of hope that always seemed to linger.

Mothers and fathers detached themselves from reality, knowing that getting close meant being broken beyond repair. There was nothing they could do, short of killing themselves before their children. They were a mere bug under Panem’s diamond-encrusted heels, threatened with the pain and agony of separation, forbidden to escape.

So far, the majority of District Twelve were stunted with the forever-hunger that always nagged at them. If the soon-to-be-picked Tributes were lucky, they’d die from natural causes, before something _much_ more horrendous came to be.

But then again, luck had abandoned District Twelve. They’d have to use something else.

* * *

_“No…Go away…no…Please…”_

_Shadows tightened their grip against a little purple-haired boy, drowning him in their clandestine darkness, his frantic screams muffled by the dark, storming clouds. Knives surrounding him, blood everywhere. His mouth, his hands, a large cut spanning from his throat to his gut. He pleads, but they do not listen._

_“Have mercy…please.” He shivers and squirms, hoping to go free._

_The shadows chuckle._

_“Little one, Life is a cruel thing. Death is more merciful than me.” Their shadowy faces grin, an eerie stretch of sharp white canines. No more a whimper from the boy, as his soul is devoured cruelly._

_He is no more._

Akatani jumped up from his bed, curly purple hair bouncing with the upset of gravity. Once again, a nightmare plaguing him at the edges of his conscience.

_(No matter. The nightmares are the only thing that reminds him he’s still alive.)_

Akatani turned his head toward the old metal window up on the wall. It’s dawn, pale-yellow sun still unfolding from the rose-blushed sky. It was a bit too early than he was used to, but once he was awake, he stayed awake.

_(The nightmares made sure of that...)_

The purple-haired teen promptly hopped off his cotton bed, old brown boots lying at the bottom. Effortlessly, he puts on said boots, a frayed grey blouse, and faded black pants. It takes a bit more effort to grab the time-hardened lute on his nightstand, in front of a fractured photo-frame of his sister and mother. He avoided looking at the picture, only stopping to brush his calloused palms against the cracked glass.

He stood up, gaze shifting around the expanse of his bedroom. “Well,” he announces to the empty air, “I’m leaving now.”

Akatani stands in front of his bedroom mirror, deftly gathering up his wild curly hair in a small ponytail, a garden of purple curls fanning over his right eye. His wide, pearlescent-green eyes blinked hard and slow, with a peaceful madness brightening his irises.

He holds his lute closed, aged boots clacking over the wood floor, out of his bedroom door, and towards the black-painted wooden door one hallway away.

As he walks, he passes pieces of yellowed paper tacked to the wall, crayon markings adorning them in childish scribbles.

_(One drawing had a crude picture of Akatani, bright-red hearts plastered to his face, and a little blob resembling his lute. ‘My brother loves music.’ Written at the bottom. A gold star pressed to the corner of the page.)_

Akatani passes by the drawings, eyes trained on the semi-abandoned kitchen, dust covering every part of it. The slight scent of tart lemon flowed from the room, Akatani pausing to inhale it. He presses his right hand against the open kitchen door, whispering an indecipherable string of words.

He reaches the door, glancing at a wooden stool, spider lilies in a vase sitting atop it. Akatani grasps a lily, weaving the flower through his hair.

Akatani opened the door, stepping outside into the still morning.

* * *

Akatani lived in the merchant square, close to the bakeries and confectionaries. The square wasn’t yet alive with colors and smells, but it would soon be. It wasn’t a working day, but reaping days brought about a sort of desperation in people.

_(‘What would it be like to feel that kind of desperation,’ Akatani thinks, ‘If a wanderlust like me had someone to be desperate about.’)_

Akatani first went to the cream-coloured bakery at the edge of the Square, the only bakery that opened this early.

Akatani opened the bakery door, the dinging of the bell alerting the only person there at the time.

“Hey, Little Cloud! You’re early!” Yamada Hizashi bellowed happily. The yellow-haired man was currently preparing the first morning round of yatsuhashi, fingers coated in red bean paste.

Akatani peered at Yamada, nodding with his usual deliberation.

“Mm,” He said, frowning.

Yamada caught the look. “Ah. Reaping days are yucky, little cloud. Tell you what, the syrup’s free.”

Akatani shook his head. “No thanks, Yamada-san. I can pay for it.” He reaches in his pocket for his wallet-pouch, opening it and pulling out a few silver coins.

“That’s _way_ more than you should pay, little cloud.” Yamada huffed.

The curly-headed teen smirks. “Well, I sing quite a bit, Yamada-san. It pays. Also, I’ve no one else to spend money on, so why not you?”

Yamada grinned, inwardly noting the darkness coating the boy’s words. The baker abandons his baking post to rummage in his pantry, coming up after a few minutes.

“Well,” Yamada says, “You’re in luck. One bottle of blackberry syrup left in my pantry!” The man holds up a medium-sized bottle of syrup, darker than his hair, and sweeter than honey.

Akatani allows himself to smile once more, reaching to retrieve the syrup, and pressing the silver coins into Yamada’s hesitantly open palm.

As the purple-haired teen uncorks the syrup bottle and gulps down the liquid, Yamada cringes.

“You sure you should be drinking that straight from the bottle, little cloud? It’s pure sugar. I dunno how you didn’t drop dead the last times I sold it to you.”

Akatani gives Yamada what could be described as a jackal’s grin.

“It’s what keeps me alive, Yamada-san.”

After going to the bakery, Akatani had a bit more to do before the fated Reaping Day begun, and it wasn’t in the merchant square area.

Akatani walked along a cobbled path that winded down into a linear trail of rocks, glass, and rusted things. The tall, attractive townhouses were replaced with squat, mud-streaked cabins, and the well-to-do early risers were substituted for squinting coal miners, emotionlessly shuffling along.

More so, since today was Reaping Day, and that meant someone’s child would be dead come winter.

Akatani turned a right toward the most coal-riddled lodges, navigating to find himself in front of a khaki-coloured house coated with sulfur and mud, windows cracked and corroded. The purple-haired teen grasped the rusted-metal knocker, banging it against the even more rusted parametal door.

A few seconds passed, and the door opened, a face belonging to Shinsou Hitoshi peeping out. The lavender-haired boy’s face shifted from guarded to his normally sarcastic expression. Shinsou wedged the door wider, creating a space for Akatani to walk through.

“It’s another Reaping Day, Miku. You okay?” Shinsou Hitoshi worriedly chimed in from a decrepit mouldy couch.

Akatani frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be? Perfectly fine, Shinsou.” The dark purple-haired boy sipped from the almost empty bottle of blackberry syrup.

Shinsou coughed, obviously concerned. “Um. It’s just that— I thought—”

“It’s nothing, Shinsou.” Akatani made a move to sit on the other side of the mouldy couch. “Nothing at all. In fact, enough about me. How’s the “group home” treating you?”

_(It wasn’t really a group home, per se. It was a horrorhouse of pain and suffering, for kids who had it even worse than most of District Twelve. For kids that had no one to take care of them. The only reason why Akatani didn’t go to the “group home” was because he lived in the merchant area, and had a steady income, even at his young age.)_

Shinsou scoffed. “If one could call it that. Yesterday, I got locked outside for eating the last chunk of bread. It isn’t a group home, more like an insane asylum.”

Akatani puffed out air. “That’s assuming you’re insane, Shinsou.” The teen started picking on the loose threads of the couch.

Shinsou smirked. “I must be if I’m hanging with you, Miku.”

“Lies and slander. I’m absolutely an impeccable role model.” Akatani huffed, offended.

_(Bantering with Shinsou kept the stress off some things, and made the reality seem a bit more bearable to Akatani. Also, he was a great backup singer, but that wasn’t the point.)_

Afterwards, the two boys were discussing other topics, musical, one could say.

“Oh,” Shinsou said, “What’s the new song you’re playing in the Square?”

Akatani scoffed. “It’s just a song. Why’re you so invested in me? I let you sing backup once, and now you think you’re my _manager_.”

“Hey, _you_ said you liked my voice. _Also, the fact that it’s deeper than yours despite you being older than me._ ” Shinsou rasped, the last part said quickly, so Akatani couldn’t decipher it.

_A moment of uncomfortable silence..._

“If you really want to hear it, I could play it.” Akatani chimed in.

Shinsou started. “ _Here_? In the group home? _Boy_ , you are crazy.”

Akatani huffed. “You were the one who wanted to hear it. I’ll sing softly, since your home-mates are late-risers.”

The dark-haired teen pulled out his lute, strumming gently on it, creating a soft but haunting tune, velvety humming evolving into a high and clear alto.


End file.
